That's Why I'm Here
by Noxbait
Summary: S11. Tag to "The Devil in the Details." Sam wasn't ok. Not at all. Dean didn't need to ask his brother that question to know the answer. He decided he wasn't even going to ask that question tonight. In fact, he was going to give it a few days before asking that question. After a few days he would ask it and then he'd pretend to believe Sam when he lied and said he was fine.


**Spoiler alert if you haven't seen 11.9 and 11.10 ("O Brother Where Art Thou?" and "The Devil in the Details")!**

 **While I was satisfied overall with the way things were handled in these episodes and how things were addressed in 11.11 "Into the Mystic" (they actually addressed the fact Sam wasn't 'fine'!) I still felt like it would be nice to see what happened after the fade out of 11.10 before things picked up in 11.11. This is what came from me wondering how things went between those episodes...**

 **Huge THANK YOU and virtual hugs to the lovely L.H. the 2nd who was the most awesome beta I could have hoped for on this! Thank you again for reading every draft along the way and for the great suggestions, tweaks, and encouragement along the way! Couldn't have done it without you! :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Dean had no idea how long he'd been driving. Not long enough to erase the memories of what had happened earlier. Not nearly enough to blot out the dark, evil taste Amara left in his mouth. Not at all long enough to erase the memory of her kiss, her touch. And definitely not long enough to even begin to dim the Technicolor memories of seeing Sam trapped in that cage with Lucifer or how long Sam had been trapped there the first time and the fact that he hadn't been there to prevent it from happening this time.

There would never be enough miles on enough roads for him to forget that.

Apparently he had driven far enough, though, to need to pull over before he spewed all over the interior of his car. Dean jerked the wheel none too smoothly and the Impala jarred to a halt on the shoulder of a road he didn't even recognize but vaguely knew was leading them toward home. Slamming the car into park, he wrenched the door open and made a slightly more graceful exit than he had earlier. Managing to stumble toward the rear of the car before he lost his precious control, Dean leaned heavily against the trunk as he threw up on the gravel for the second time in one day.

Head lowered, one hand braced against the trunk, the other on his knee, Dean spit a string of nastiness onto the ground and groaned. Pressing his eyes closed, he willed his heart to slow its frantic beating before he was too lightheaded to remain upright. So far he was still standing, an improvement over his first bout of so-called 'smiting sickness'. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that this time around it probably had less to do with the confrontation with Amara than it did with the fact that he'd just walked into hell like most people walked into grocery stores.

"Out." Dean mumbled breathlessly, feeling dizzy even with his eyes closed, "We're out."

And just because it was true, it didn't mean that the memory of being back there, of seeing Sam beaten and bloody, of knowing that had he been any slower getting there… Dean groaned and retched miserably. He didn't have anything left to throw up at this point, but that didn't mean his stomach accepted the situation. It had been too close, and in an entire lifetime of _too close_ , Dean knew this time it had been so far beyond too close that it took the entire top ten slots of their _too close_ hall of fame.

Leaning heavily against the car, Dean couldn't erase the image of the devil taunting him, of Sam looking up at him, believing that all hope was lost, that they wouldn't be able to win this round, yet looking so relieved to see Dean that it had staggered him then, as it did even now. Dean had been thankful beyond words that his brother had been that coherent; that he'd recognized him, trusted him. When he'd heard where Sam was, he'd almost keeled over under the weight of considering what that sort of trauma, being back in the cage, facing Lucifer again, must have done to Sam. Must _still_ be doing to him.

And suddenly, Dean needed to be back in the car, back on the road breaking every speed limit between here and home. Needed to get them home, make sure Sam was ok. Snorting, Dean wiped a hand over his mouth. Sam wasn't ok. Not at all. Dean didn't need to ask his brother that question to know the answer. Pushing himself slowly upright, he decided he wasn't even going to ask that question tonight. In fact, he was going to give it a few days before asking that question.

After a few days he would ask it and then he'd pretend to believe Sam when he lied and said he was fine.

* * *

Sam was shocked back to awareness when the Impala veered off to the side of the road and skidded to a stop on the gravel, breaking the silence and the hypnotic monotony of the drive. As soon as Dean had started the Impala and they'd left Cas and Crowley and hell behind them, the silence had descended and he found himself lost in dark, despairing memories. Memories of the Cage and memories of all his many failures. Failures the devil had been thrilled to remind him of in living color and complete with commentary.

The abrasive creaking of the door announced Dean's departure from the car. Sam turned to look, to ask what was going on, but all he saw was a blur as his brother vaulted toward the rear of the car. Sam closed his eyes and bit back a groan of pain as the rapid movement left him seeing stars. The pounding in his head quadrupled and he couldn't even find the strength to call out to Dean to see what was wrong. Sam pressed his fingers to his eyes, not certain if he were trying to calm the headache or trying to wipe away the memories of the cage.

Either way, it wasn't helping.

He heard the sound of Dean being sick and his own stomach turned. There was no way he was going to make it out of the car in time. Sucking in a desperate, shallow breath, Sam fumbled along the floorboards until he caught the handle of a plastic bag left over from a minimart stop a few weeks ago. Grateful they had a bad habit of not cleaning under the seats, Sam opened the bag just in the nick of time. He didn't really have that much to throw up and the entire ordeal accomplished little more than intensifying the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears.

After a touch and go moment or two, Sam knotted the bag up and dropped it to the floorboard, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang low. It didn't do anything for the headache, but it did alleviate a bit of the dizziness. After a couple minutes, he heard Dean's slow footsteps and felt the car dip as he got back behind the wheel. Remaining still, he kept his eyes closed and waited for the engine to start up.

It didn't.

Sam pushed past the fog in his head and the nightmarish memories that were still flashing through his mind and tried to figure out what was going on with his brother. The memory of Dean and Cas showing up outside the cage, then the awful, despairing moment when they were brought into the cage ran through his mind. Dean had seemed ok then. A little worse for wear, maybe, but he hadn't seemed badly injured so maybe it was just being back in hell that was making him queasy? Sam couldn't blame him. It was making him queasy too.

He wanted to ask Dean how he was doing, thank him for the rescue, apologize for...well, everything. But he couldn't. Because he was barely holding it together as it was. If he opened his mouth at this point, he'd either throw up again or cry and he sure as hell wasn't going to do that.

* * *

Dean expected to get the fifth degree when he returned to the car. There was no way Sam hadn't heard him hurling up his guts so he expected to be questioned on what was wrong with him. But Sam didn't ask him anything. Didn't even look up when he got back in the car.

Which told him exactly how crappy his brother felt. The fact his face had gone the color of paper was also a good indication that Sam hadn't made it out of hell unscathed. Not that Dean had for one single second thought that he had. Pulling the heavy door closed behind him, Dean sank into his seat and blindly stared out the windshield.

Fumbling with the key, he started the engine and got back on the road. Dean glanced over at Sam and saw that he was sitting back up from his hunched position. His movements were stiff and slow, dragging as if every single position change hurt. Flicking his eyes to the road, then back to his brother, Dean wondered if maybe he should actually see how bad Sam was hurt. They'd cut and run from hell, never looking back, never even talking much about what they'd gone through. He'd been so focused on getting them as far from there as he could that he had really only assessed the fact that Sam was walking and talking. Dean realized he had no idea how badly Sam might have been injured.

"Hey." Dean said, frustrated with how broken and quiet his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he divided his attention between the empty road ahead and trying to do a better job of looking Sam over. "You good to go home or we need a hospital?"

It took a moment for Sam to reply and Dean spent that moment trying to figure out where the nearest hospital was.

"Just sore." Sam finally said, his voice soft but steady.

Dean stared at him, gauging his honesty.

"Seriously, Dean." Sam said, shooting him a quick glance then closing his eyes and slumping against the door. "Bruises. Headache."

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean let it out in a heavy sigh and nodded. Home it was. He was prepared not to hear another word from his brother the rest of the trip, and given the pain he was sure Sam was minimizing, Dean would have been fine with that. But after a few dozen mile markers flew by at about fifteen over the speed limit, Dean was surprised to hear Sam speak up.

"Felt like forever."

"What?" Dean asked because he'd been so focused on making sure he kept them on the road and out of ditches that he'd tuned out every other noise. Turning his head, he found Sam still slumped in the same position, eyes still closed as if he hadn't spoken.

"It's nothing." Sam said dismissively.

"Sam."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Sam shifted a little and said, "When I was back...there. It felt like forever."

Dean swallowed back the rising nausea at what his brother meant. There wasn't anything he could say to that. Words were not enough. Especially not the pathetic, "I'm sorry," that he said softly.

"Not your fault, man." Sam said, looking over at him with a hint of a smile, "You got there. That's what counts. I told him you were going to come busting in there. And you did."

"Not soon enough." Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Anger and affection warred for first place in his mind. Anger at...well, just about everything. But, balancing the anger, was the warm sensation that Sam had been _that_ confident in him. After everything they'd gone through, everything they'd faced, Sam still had that kind of confidence in him. It was terrifying and humbling all at the same time.

Sam blew out a slow breath, his smile faded and he looked scared when he said, "Most of the time I knew. But..there at the end...when he started tossing me around, that's when I started to forget."

"Forget what?" Dean asked, mouth dry. He didn't want to know.

"That I got out." Sam said and it was exactly what Dean had been afraid he was going to say; what he'd expected him to say. Sam continued to stare at him as he added, "It felt like I'd never left. But I kept telling him you were coming, I think I was trying to remind myself that you really were coming this time...and then you did."

Dean turned to meet his eyes and saw the conviction and relief in Sam's eyes. He wanted to say something in return. Anything. But he couldn't think of a single thing. And when Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window, Dean looked back at the road and didn't say a word the rest of the trip back to the bunker.

* * *

After what seemed like a few dozen eternities, Dean pulled the car into the safety of the garage. It had been a long, silent trip and exhaustion was dragging him down and he just wanted to fall into a chair with a bottle of something stronger than beer to make the last day or two disappear for a few hours. He dragged himself out of the car and closed the door behind him with a lot less force than usual. Straightening up, he scrubbed a hand over his face and waited a minute to see if the world would right itself. It did, quicker than the last time he'd stood up. Taking one step toward the staircase leading from inside the garage into the bunker, Dean paused.

Turning around, he realized that Sam's door hadn't opened. And when he changed the direction of his steps and walked around the front of the car, Dean's heart caught in his throat. He'd actually been expecting it, steeling himself for it once he heard that Sam had wound up back in the cage with the devil.

In some ways, four years was a long time. In other ways, the memory of Sam's battle with the hallucinations of the devil after Cas broke the wall in his head would always seem like yesterday. Four years since Cas had taken on the hallucinations and none of the three of them had looked back since. But tonight, after having been thrown right back into his worst nightmare, it was obvious Sam was looking back now.

He had the same blank, haunted expression on his face now as he'd had all those years before when the devil had been not so slowly driving him literally insane. Sam looked like he was a billion miles away; or however far exactly it was back to the cage. Dean hurried around and yanked the door open, actually glad when Sam jerked in shock, then looked up in confusion. Anything was better than that unseeing, glazed expression of fear.

"Hey!" Dean shouted too loudly, leaning on the open door and ready to reach in and shake his brother if necessary.

Sam's expression of surprise changed to one of annoyance and he asked, "Why are you yelling at me?"

"I wasn't yelling." Dean said unconvincingly.

"Whatever, man." Sam shoved at him and said, "My head hurts too much to argue with you."

Dean backed off and didn't reach out to grab Sam when he wavered as he stood up. Because Sam was glaring at him like he'd somehow personally offended him and Dean wasn't sure what to do without making that worse. So he just ignored him and headed for the door, pulling it open hard enough to almost pull it off its hinges. But when he stepped through the door and shot a quick, irritated glance back at his brother, Dean realized two things.

One, Sam was walking so slowly that it would take him a month to get to the door.

And, two, Dean was going to stand there and hold said door open for a month if that was what it took.

The bluster of Sam's brief irritation was gone and he walked like everything hurt, not just the physical aches and pains of the beatdown he'd endured, but the more easily overlooked but no less serious emotional and mental pain. He had his eyes pointed at the floor and it had nothing to do with trying to avoid Dean's stare. From his slightly wavering footsteps, and the way he kept his left hand out in front of him as if he were waiting to hit the floor, Dean could tell he was concentrating on merely staying upright. The way his own head ached, Dean could sympathize.

So he just stood there and waited. The weight of everything that had happened settled over him as he held onto the doorframe, then sagged against it. He shook his head, wishing there was something that could erase all of it from his mind. Whiskey, and a lot of it, sounded like a good place to start but Dean knew that was only a temporary fix. Everything would still be there in the morning. And he'd have a wicked hangover to boot. And they'd still have to deal with the fact they'd been back to hell. Even so, for a few hours of peace, he felt like it would be worth it.

"What's wrong?"

Sam's voice, low and unsteady, brought his head up quickly and he asked, "What?"

"Why are you shaking your head?" Sam asked. He still was a good twenty feet away and not moving any faster than a zombie.

Not one of those modern movie zombies who ran like Olympians but were somehow all the less frightening because of it. No, Sam was moving like one of the good old fashioned brain-gobblers. The kind that moved so slow that even if you tripped over your own feet running from them, they'd still be a mile away by the time you got back up and kept running. And Dean was not ready to wait that long any more so, disregarding his earlier hesitation at how his assistance might be received, he crossed the space between them until he was within grabbing distance. Sam's expression didn't change to irritation this time. He seemed too tired to bother as he stared at Dean and waited for an answer.

Still holding off from actually yanking on his arm and pulling him into the bunker, Dean shook his head again and tried to sound reasonable when he said, "Let's get inside ok?"

"Ok." Sam said, and reached out with his left hand and grabbed Dean's shoulder.

Surprised, Dean didn't comment, just started walking. His brother finally hit a more normal rate of speed, but his hand stayed on Dean's shoulder until they were through the door. Figuring he'd have it covered from there, Dean turned away to close the door only to be again surprised by Sam grabbing him again. He found himself yanked forward as Sam slid back against the wall and dropped to the ground, hand still fisted in Dean's jacket.

Dean slammed a hand against the wall next to his brother's head to keep from smashing foreheads with him. He dropped to a crouch, eyes rapidly assessing his brother's condition. A little worse for wear, a little bloody, a little shaky, but if Dean were being completely honest, he didn't look that bad. He just looked really, really, _incredibly_ tired.

"Sam?" Dean asked after thirty seconds of shock-induced silence. When he spoke, Sam abruptly released his grasp on Dean's jacket and met his gaze.

"Sorry. Just got a little," Sam took a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds before finishing, "lightheaded."

"Obviously." Dean rolled his eyes, shifting back slightly so he wasn't practically sitting on his brother.

Sam watched him wearily, but didn't say anything more. Dean stared at his brother, then fisted his hands and shook his head, cursing not so quietly in the quiet hallway. For a moment, it was like the Mark was back in control as the fury coursed through his bloodstream at Amara and Rowena and Crowley and the devil himself. Fury at everyone and everything that had torn them to pieces over and over and over again all their lives.

"Stop it, Dean."

Sam's voice, quiet as it was, broke through the rush of anger that threatened to overwhelm him and Dean stopped. He boxed it all up again, as he had done thousands of times before and stood up. Sam frowned, his head leaning back against the wall as he looked up at Dean. He asked, "What are you doing?"

Dean forced a smile, half-hearted and pathetic as it was, and said, "Going to get you some water. And some painkillers. And then see if we can peel you off the floor."

"I can get up." Sam insisted, starting to move. And he probably would have made it, but Dean leaned back down and pressed a hand against his chest, pinning him in place.

Surprised at how fast Sam's heart was beating under his hand, Dean met his eyes again, concern redoubling. Sam looked calm; his heartbeat said he was anything but. Deciding this was one of those times when keeping his mouth shut and simply taking action was warranted, Dean did just that.

He sat down heavily right next to Sam, bumping shoulders with him and stretching his legs out. Dean could feel the tension in his brother's stiff posture. He could also feel him constantly shifting and moving, trying to disguise the fact that he was trembling. Dean didn't move.

For a long time nothing happened. Then Sam let out a shaky sigh and all the tension leaked out of him and he slumped further down against the wall until he could have put his head on Dean's shoulder. But he didn't. Dean tilted his head enough that he could see Sam was staring blankly at the opposite wall. But this time it wasn't the blank stare of zoning out on hell-hallucinations. This time it was just the blank stare of someone hurting and exhausted beyond words. Dean followed his brother's gaze and decided sitting down might not have been such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Sam listened to the sounds of their breathing. Dean was still breathing quickly, obviously the brief display of anger hadn't exhausted all of his burning emotion. Every once in awhile, he'd sigh, but otherwise he was silent and still. Sam didn't know what to make of it. From the moment they'd arrived home, from the moment they'd taken off in the Impala actually, he'd been expecting Dean to ask him if he was ok. And then to be dissatisfied with whatever response Sam chose to give him. Not that _he_ would believe any response he chose to give either.

Unless he told the truth and said _No, I'm not ok, I've never been farther from it. I thought I got rid of Lucifer, thought I could forget about everything he did to me and now it's all I can think about and I was back there in that damned cage with him and I didn't know how I was going to get out and even though I knew you'd find me, I'm still terrified that this is all a hallucination and I'm still there, I never left. I never left!_

Shuddering despite his best effort not to, Sam decided it was a very good thing Dean hadn't asked him how he was doing. Because neither of them would like his answer.

"Sam?"

 _Oh, please don't ask!_ Sam prayed, realizing Dean must have felt him move. He knew that was a big part of why they were still sitting here on the cold, concrete floor. If Dean had just left him alone, had just let him get to his feet on his own… But no, Dean had to reach out and touch him and Sam could hide a lot of things, but he couldn't hide the fact that his heart started beating triple time when his brother started to move away from him.

 _Not real. I mean...it_ is _real! This is real. It's not real that you think that this isn't real_ , Sam shook his head, his own thoughts tangling and twisting and leaving him feeling like something was crushing his chest and his head was going to explode and he was going to throw up again and then all he could think of was the fact that Dean was going to kill him when he found out.

"I'm sorry." Sam said, his voice paper-thin even in the silence of the hallway.

Dean shifted ever so slightly and said, "Don't say you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. Well, ok other than going off without me in the first place and…"

"I threw up in the car."

"What?" Dean broke off from his litany of things Sam should or shouldn't be sorry for.

Sam felt him move again, and although he was still sitting next to him, he was sitting forward a bit more and the comforting warmth of his shoulder was gone. Shivering slightly, Sam met Dean's eyes. It looked like Dean had aged a dozen years in the past day. Eyes bloodshot and dark in a face that was pale and speckled with blood. His expression was completely dumbfounded though, and Sam couldn't help it when he actually laughed.

"Ok, now I know how bad that concussion is." Dean said, sounding concerned.

"I did." Sam insisted, feeling like an idiot for laughing at a time like this, but he couldn't help it. Dean's eyebrows rose and Sam was certain his brother was thinking about having him committed for real this time and then he choked on the laughter when he remembered going crazy and winding up committed and he felt so cold and hell was cold and then he was grabbing Dean's arm so hard that his own fingers hurt and he couldn't imagine how much it must be hurting Dean…

"Sammy. Hey, calm down. Are you trying to break my arm?" The concern deepened, but there was none of the panic Sam was feeling in Dean's eyes or manner. He was calm. Calm as he shifted again but didn't try to pull his arm away. He was calm and quiet as his free hand gently cupped the side of Sam's face and asked something he hadn't asked in four years, "Sam? You with me? Right here? Right now? You with me?"

Sam's grip eased on Dean's arm and he nodded quickly. He whispered, "I'm with you."

"Good. Ok. Slow it down, then. You're gonna hyperventilate." Dean nodded, still not pulling his arm away. Moving his free hand over Sam's head he said, "Got a couple good bumps here, man. No wonder you're loopier than usual. Maybe we should go to the hospital."

Shaking his head, Sam started to protest, but Dean just narrowed his eyes and finished, "Because if I find out you really threw up in my Baby, you're gonna need a hospital."

The threat was an empty one and there was nothing but worry written all over Dean's face when Sam timidly admitted with a sheepish smile, "I really did."

"Dude, you haven't done that since you were a kid." Dean said softly, "Dad was so pissed."

"I don't remember that." Sam said. At least not _that_ part. Sam frowned, thinking back to that awful car trip back to the apartment they had been renting. The school nurse had called his dad and in less than twenty fevered, sick and miserable minutes, his dad had swooped in like a hero and promised him that he'd feel better in a few days and that he could watch whatever he wanted on tv the rest of the week. They'd picked Dean up early from school and then he'd been so sick the rest of the way to the apartment that he didn't have a clear memory of the rest of the week.

Dean snorted. "Of course you don't remember that. Dad wasn't pissed at _you_. He was pissed at me. Because I didn't find the bag fast enough to keep you from painting the backseat."

"Used a bag this time." Sam muttered, swallowing hard and finally releasing Dean's arm. He pulled his legs up and rested his elbows on them, squeezing his head between his hands and trying not to repeat his earlier performance.

"Good thing. Cuz I'm not cleaning it out of the carpet again." Dean said, settling back down against the wall. "You think you're gonna hurl again? I'll guarantee I'll be faster finding a bag."

Sam shook his head, tightening his grip on his head.

"You should lie down." Dean said quietly.

And while, in theory, Sam liked the sound of that plan, he wasn't feeling up to moving yet. Making it this far had been an extraordinary feat of willpower. His bed sounded great, though. The cold concrete was chilling him to the bones and it wasn't very comfortable either, reminding him of the cage and the devil and sending another shiver coursing through his body. But when he felt a warm hand on the back of his neck, squeezing gently, he decided this wasn't so bad. This wasn't the cage and he wasn't sitting here with the devil.

This was home and he was with his brother.

And he was safe.

* * *

Dean leaned his head back against the wall and kept his left hand where it was. Sam's skin felt like ice under his fingers and he wanted to get him warmed up, get some medicine into him and then find the liquor for himself. It was obvious Sam wasn't ready to move yet, though, so Dean would wait until he was ready.

Of course, sitting in the silence left him with nothing better to do than to think and thinking made him want to punch something again. He was grateful that Sam hadn't asked him anything about what had happened before he'd arrived in hell. He'd have to tell Sam about Amara and the smiting and everything else at some point. Just not tonight. They had more than enough to deal with as it was.

The seconds ticked by as his butt grew more and more numb and right at the moment Dean cleared his throat to call an end to the hallway vigil, he just barely heard Sam's voice when he whispered, "Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean asked, feeling Sam straightening up under his hand.

"I'm gonna go take a shower."

And that wasn't a bad idea in theory. But by the time they had pulled themselves to their unsteady feet, Dean lost confidence that either of them were up for that. He didn't comment as Sam headed off away from him, one hand braced on the wall as he walked. Dean followed and rubbed his bleary eyes. Standing up was good because, had he sat there any longer, he would never have been able to walk again, but it was also bad because it reminded him of how much his head hurt and how awful he felt.

Sam paused once, squeezing his eyes closed and Dean said, "Just go lie down, Sam. You're dead on your feet."

"No." Sam shook his head, hazy eyes barely focusing on Dean as he started walking again. "Need to get the smell off me. I can still smell it."

And that confession left Dean staggered and speechless. He watched Sam turn the corner, heading to his room and suddenly Dean was rushing to his own room, tearing his coat and shirt off and, headache or not, heading for a shower. Because he could still smell it too. All over him. The heavy stench of sulphur and horror.

Sensing that they were in the calm before the storm, Dean took one of the fastest showers on record. Only long enough to nearly burn himself with the scalding water and scrub the first layer of skin off with enough soap to wash an entire class of kindergartners after a day of playing in the mud. Pulling clean, fresh, _non-hell scented_ clothes on, Dean stood in the hallway for a split second and tried to decide which direction to go.

Kitchen for water and pills for Sam and a few shots for himself.

Or go the opposite direction and make sure Sam wasn't caught in the throes of a flashback or hallucination or something worse. Dean headed toward his brother's bedroom, still smelling sulphur even though it wasn't there anymore. Lucifer's taunting grin flashed through his mind, overlaid in a heartbeat with Alistair's face. Dean had to pause for a moment to catch his breath and sort out his own memories before he could take another step closer to trying to help Sam deal with _his._

Lowering his head, he took a few calming breaths wondering why everything had to be so freaking difficult in their lives. And why past trauma refused stubbornly to remain in the past. Buried. Where it belonged. It had been a long time, maybe not years exactly, but a long time since he'd actually thought about Alistair. Dick Roman, Purgatory, the Mark of Cain and Amara had all served to help move that face to a far off corner of his mind. But, hey, since the devil was back why not unlock all the dark nightmares of the past?

Snorting humorlessly, Dean ran a hand through his wet hair and forced himself to focus on the here and now. In less than a dozen heartbeats, he was at Sam's door, not sure what to expect when he got there. The empty room was certainly one possibility that had crossed his mind, but one of his least favorite scenarios. Because if Sam wasn't in his room, he could be anywhere and the bunker was big enough that they could play hide and seek and probably never find each other.

The light was on in the room and the dresser drawer was half open so obviously Sam had been here at some point. Dean turned back to the hall and frowned, wondering where to start looking. Then he heard a cupboard door close and he headed toward the kitchen. Should have started there in the first place.

The lights were on in the kitchen and the area they'd carved out to be something of a living room. Dean heard the television, but went straight for the kitchen. He and Sam practically collided when he walked into the kitchen. He stepped back abruptly and Sam leaned against the table to correct his balance, but he didn't look like he was hallucinating or feeling particularly traumatized. He just looked amused.

"Fast shower." Sam said, straightening up and trying not to look like he'd needed to lean on the table to avoid falling over.

"Not as fast as yours." Dean shrugged, seeing Sam's hair still dripping onto his sweatshirt. Sam didn't say anything and they just stared at each other for a moment, then Dean asked, "You take anything yet?"

"Yeah." Sam lifted his other hand and pointed at a nearly empty bottle of narcotics they had leftover from some recent injury that Dean couldn't even remember at the moment.

"That bad?" Dean frowned, knowing Sam generally couldn't be bothered to take a lousy Tylenol. Which meant he was seriously hurting. "Anything broken?"

Sam shook his head, then grimaced and put a hand to his head. He said, "Bruises. Headache."

Which could just as easily mean _fractures and major head injury_ , but Dean let it go. Sam was moving stiffly, but he was moving. And he was coherent. Dean glanced around the kitchen and saw the bottle of whiskey on the counter. The cap was off and the amber liquid in the bottle was still moving and Dean's gaze was instantly back on his brother. Sam met his gaze and the answer to Dean's still unasked question was bright in his haunted eyes.

 _Are you ok?_

 _No._

But all Sam said aloud was, "I was going to get you a glass."

"Don't worry about it." Dean said, sidestepping his brother and reaching for the bottle.

By the time he'd taken a swig and turned around, Sam was gone. Dean stood in the kitchen for a long moment. They needed to eat. It had been a long day. Sam had taken heavy duty painkillers and who knows how many drinks of whiskey on an empty stomach. Dean's stomach was already rolling even as the familiar warmth of the liquor started to ease something inside him. He yanked open a cupboard door, downing another drink as he did so, and fumbling for something they could eat. Nothing sounded good and after a fruitless minute of searching, he gave up and headed for the living room.

It wouldn't matter at this point what they ate. Tomorrow was going to be ugly either way.

Following the sounds of the television, he found Sam slumped miserably on the couch, staring at the television. Dean asked, " _Star Wars_?"

Sam shrugged, carefully not looking at him. The lights were dim, but from the glow of the tv, he could see the fear Sam was trying so hard to hide written all over his face. It was clear that Sam didn't plan to sleep tonight. Distraction was the only thing on his agenda. Dean sat down next to him as Sam hit play on the DVD player. Taking another drink and watching the familiar words slide up the screen, Dean put his feet up on the coffee table, grateful that Sam had chosen the original trilogy. He wasn't in the mood to put up with Jar Jar Binks.

Neither of them moved for a long time, but when R2D2 and C-3PO started working on getting the rest of the team out of the trash compactor, Sam wordlessly reached out a hand and Dean gave him the bottle. He didn't want Sam drinking with a concussion and already on hefty painkillers. But what he'd briefly seen in Sam's eyes when he'd first come out into the living room had been enough to tell him that what his brother was going through was every bit as bad as he figured it was.

He doubted either of them was going to get any sleep. At least any _uninterrupted_ sleep, and decided that if Sam could even pass out for an hour or so, maybe it would be better than nothing. The bottle thumped his leg and he took it back, shooting one quick look at Sam. Sam stared at the tv and didn't say anything so neither did Dean.

Even when he heard Sam's breathing hitch every once in awhile, Dean kept his mouth shut and just kept drinking. Midway through _Empire Strikes Back_ , Dean was lying with his head on the back of the couch, feeling a heady buzz and finding Leia even more attractive than usual when he lifted the bottle and realized it was empty. Giving it one last optimistic shake, he tilted his head against the couch cushion and saw that somewhere between Dagobah and Bespin City, Sam had dropped off to sleep.

With a sigh of relief, Dean let the bottle drop to the ground. His head felt like it weighed more than Chewbacca and Dean left it resting where it was, tilted toward Sam. Hoping against hope that he was going to make it through this without what seemed to be inevitable nightmares. When _Return of the Jedi_ started up automatically, Dean was practically asleep with his eyes open. By the end of the movie, Sam hadn't so much as twitched even through lightsaber battles and an exploding Death Star. Not even the Ewoks roused him.

By the time the ending credits faded and the screen went blue, Dean could feel every ounce of liquor he'd ill-advisedly consumed. The room was pulsing in and out of focus and the headache was now about a twenty on a ten-point scale. It had been a long time since he'd been this drunk and abruptly remembered exactly why he tended to keep his vice in check. Lurching up from the couch, he hit his hands and knees on the floor and the whiskey made its unwanted reappearance.

Dean knew that if he moved one single solitary centimeter in the wrong direction, _any_ direction, his head was going to snap off his neck and roll right into the puddle of puke on the floor. Groaning, he tried to keep his hands under him, but started sagging toward the floor. Before he could face-plant, though, a strong arm wrapped around his chest and he didn't quite have time to explain his head's precarious position before he started hurling again, but it didn't really matter in the end because a wastebasket appeared in front of him and a hand was gently pressed against his forehead. His head stayed attached to his body even though he had to keep his eyes squeezed shut to prevent his eyeballs from popping out and landing in the mess.

Vaguely, he waited for the mouthy remarks about him not being able to hold his liquor or how stupid he was for drinking so much in the first place, but all he heard was the sound of his own harsh breathing and the embarrassing moaning sound he made in between retching up his guts. But Sam didn't say anything. He just held on.

From there, things got very fuzzy and would have been terrifying if it weren't for the knowledge that it was Sam hanging on to him. Because it felt like every single part of him was trying to break off in pieces and float away in different directions. The puking finally ended and he would have crumpled into a heap, but he didn't. Sam pulled him to his feet and Dean couldn't even protest because his throat hurt so much he couldn't talk. Not that he could have formed a word at this point. Falling, swimming, spinning, twisting and nearly floating away, Dean kept his eyes shut and grabbed at Sam's shirt with fumbling fingers that never did quite get a grip on the fabric.

And then he was mercifully, thankfully, _awesomely_ flat on his back on his memory foam and Dean had never felt so comfortable in his entire life. A blanket was pulled over him and a hand patted him on the chest and then he was alone. Frowning, he still didn't dare open his eyes, but managed to croak out, "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

For the life of him, he couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say.

A soft snort of laughter floated back to him, then Sam said, "Get some sleep, Dean."

"Not the way it works." Dean finally said, a few thoughts coalescing into something resembling a sentence.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, voice soft. Tired.

This time he did force his eyes open and even managed to get them pointed at his brother's huge blurry form. Swallowing hard against the lingering nausea and the emotions that threatened to slip out, Dean said, "I'm supposed to take care of you."

"You already did." Sam answered instantly, his hand back on Dean's chest. "That's why I'm here."

* * *

Sam sat on the edge of Dean's bed for almost an hour after he fell asleep. Glad that Dean had managed to fall asleep, Sam couldn't help but grimace, thinking of how bad Dean was going to feel when he woke up to the splitting headache he had ahead of him. The painkillers, alcohol and bit of sleep had helped dull his own headache to a muted throb by now, but Dean was going to hate himself later. Once he was fairly confident his brother was actually going to sleep for awhile and his own stomach settled a bit, Sam gingerly stood up. Heading back to the kitchen, he grabbed the aspirin and a couple bottles of water. Returning to Dean's room, he left the water and aspirin next to the bed, then turned off the light and made the long trek back to the kitchen yet again.

He was under no illusion that he would be getting any sleep, so he made a big cup of coffee and forced himself to eat some toast. Taking the mug with him, Sam returned to the living room and remembered the mess. Gagging, his stomach turned dangerously, but he managed to get past the bout of nausea without the toast making a reappearance. Sam put the coffee down and went back to the kitchen for paper towels. By the time he'd mopped up the mess and cleaned everything, he was barely able to stay on his feet. Before he allowed himself to crash on the couch, though, he switched out the DVDs.

Tonight was a night for marathons and their brand new extended edition version of _The Hobbit_ would be the perfect distraction to get him through the rest of the night.

* * *

Dean had felt this bad before. Many times, in fact. Didn't make it any easier. Waking up with a brutal hangover on top of being beat up by the freakin' devil meant there would definitely be no shining accompanying his rising this morning. Groaning, he kept his eyes closed as he tried to come to grips with where he was and how he was going to get from wherever he was to the nearest toilet so he could throw up.

Fingers closing around soft fabric, he shifted his head and felt the pillow under his face and the wet spot of drool where he'd been laying. Disgusted, he flopped heavily onto his back and managed to get his eyes open. The room was dark. His room. His bed. Frowning and lifting his left hand to press against his eyes, Dean sorted through the jumbled memories of last night and, like lightning in a storm-blackened sky, he remembered how he'd managed to get to his bed. Glancing quickly at his watch left him reeling and so dizzy he thought he'd fall right off the bed, but he needed to know how long he'd been out of it.

How long he'd left Sam on his own.

It took almost thirty seconds for him to get his eyes uncrossed. It was just after ten in the morning. _Great_. Dean shoved himself upright and almost lost the tiny bit of control he had over his rolling stomach. Breathing carefully, he sat still until the feeling passed and he was mostly sure he wasn't going to throw up. Yet.

Catching sight of the aspirin and two water bottles, Dean reached for them and, despite his badly shaking hands, managed to get them open. Letting the water settle for a few minutes, Dean strained to hear any sounds from the bunker. It was silent as far as he could tell. Maybe Sam had dropped him off and then gone to bed himself.

"Not likely." Dean muttered, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling to the sink to brush his teeth. Finishing up, he drank the rest of the first bottle of water, then took the second with him as he left his room.

Sam's room was exactly like he'd seen it last night. Light on. Drawer half opened and bed not slept in. No surprise With a sigh, Dean headed toward the living room. He could smell coffee and, drawing closer, he could hear the sounds of a battle. One with real swords, not lightsabers. _Lord of the Rings_ or...Dean rounded the corner in time to see a dragon spewing fire on a village floating on a lake. _The Hobbit_ , he realized. Must be the second one, he decided, thinking that was when Sam said the dragon showed up. Despite everything, he was actually a bit irritated that Sam was watching it without him. But it was short-lived irritation morphing quickly to concern when he looked at the couch.

Sam was sitting up, sprawled back bonelessly against the cushions, eyes bloodshot and blank as he stared at the tv screen without seeing anything. He didn't acknowledge Dean's presence at all, even when he called his name. Just like when they'd arrived at the bunker and he'd been a million miles away, Dean could tell Sam's mind had taken him to dark places despite his best efforts to keep himself distracted from sleep.

He looked like someone had cut his strings.

"Sam?" Dean said, a bit more loudly this time.

The reaction was instant and shocking. Sam flinched like a snapped rubber band and Dean's mouth went dry. For a moment, neither moved, or breathed. Then an explosion on screen had both of them jumping this time and Sam looked over at Dean like he'd never seen him before in his entire life.

Dean took a step forward, uncertain exactly what Sam's response would be. He spoke softly and said, "Hey."

Sam stared at him, breathing like he'd run a marathon and looking like a steamroller had run _him_ over. He deflated back against the couch and, voice hoarse and scratchy, said, "You take the aspirin?"

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, genius. Not my first hangover."

Nodding, Sam kept staring at him and Dean wondered if he were afraid he was going to disappear. After a long moment of silence, Dean sighed and sat down on the edge of the coffee table. He pushed the coffee cup aside and took the cap off the water bottle he'd brought with him. Holding it out, he said, "No more coffee."

"I'm fi…"

"No you're not." Dean cut him off harshly, leaning forward and physically shoving the bottle against Sam's chest until he took it. Shaking his head, Dean said, "You're not fine. And you're not going to be. At least not for a few days."

Sam took a tiny sip of water and even that seemed to be more than he had strength to do. His eyes were heavy and glassy and Dean took the bottle back before he wound up dropping it. Setting it on the table, Dean met Sam's gaze again and said, "But what you are is safe. You hear me? Sam?"

He got a shaky nod for a response and continued, "You don't have to be fine. You don't have to be anything but safe." Dean ran a hand through his hair and forced a smile, "You don't even have to do anything today, man. Vacation day. All you gotta do is get some sleep."

"Dean..." Sam's whisper faded and Dean didn't need to hear the rest of what he'd been planning to say.

"You _need_ to sleep." Dean said firmly, standing up. "You put my drunk butt to bed. My turn to return the favor."

Sam again started to protest, but he didn't have the energy to fight back when Dean shoved him sideways and dumped his legs up on the couch. Tugging at the pillow until his brother looked sort of comfortable, Dean said, "Stay put. I mean it. I'll be right back."

And then he walked out of the living room, making sure Sam could hear his muttering about lazy little brothers who started watching movies without their big brothers. Footsteps as heavy as his heart, he walked down the bleak hallway and yanked a blanket off his bed. Returning to the kitchen, he gathered the good painkillers and another bottle of water and a towel. Holding the towel under the cold water, Dean stared at the wall and wished they were having a movie marathon because they wanted to, not because they needed the distraction from the nightmares.

Turning the water off, he headed back to the other room. Sam hadn't moved a muscle as far as Dean could tell. Setting the pills and water down, Dean asked, "When'd you take something last?"

Sam shrugged.

"Sounds good." Dean said, less worried about Sam's liver than he was about his headache at this moment. He dumped a couple pills out and handed them and the bottle of water back to Sam. "Bottoms up."

A heavy sigh was all he got in response at first, but then Sam pushed himself upright enough to take the pills with another sip of water. He flopped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Dean threw the blanket over him, then settled the towel against his eyes. Sam pressed his face into the cool towel and relaxed into the cushions. Sitting back down on the coffee table, Dean popped the cap off the new bottle of water and took a drink. The movie was still playing in the background but he didn't even feel like turning around to watch.

The weight of everything settling around him like ash from a volcano, Dean realized two things. One, they really _were_ both safe. Scarred, more than a little wrecked, and beat to hell, but alive and safe. Two, they were going to figure out a way to pick up the pieces from this latest disaster the way they always had. Together.

So he sat there, watching Sam and listening to _The Hobbit_ trilogy as it continued to play behind his back. After a minute, he started commenting on the action that he wasn't watching. Snarky remarks, long-winded discussions of the battle plans of the Orcs, and pointless complaining about how he didn't think Legolas needed to be in this trilogy and why did the trilogy exist in the first place since _The Hobbit_ was only one book for crying out loud.

When he saw Sam's smile, he knew he was on the right track.

So he kept it up for the next two and a half hours as the last movie played and Sam's breathing evened out and he drifted off to sleep. And then he sat there for the next five hours in the silence of the bunker. If keeping watch over his brother for a few hours kept the nightmares away, Dean decided it was worth the backache.

"That's why I'm here." Dean whispered, remembering his brother's words from earlier.

When Sam finally woke up and said he was hungry, Dean just grinned and ordered pizza. By the time the pizza arrived and they decided to watch Indiana Jones, Dean could almost believe they were actually having a vacation day and watching movies for the pure fun of it. For a few more hours, they forgot about everything outside the doors of the safest home they'd ever known.

And life went on.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!**


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